Traveling Soldier
by tohru-chan62442
Summary: Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock discovers this the hard way.


**Pop quiz-what do you get when you mix a horrible migraine with insomnia? Apparently, ANGST CENTRAL. I guess my subconscious brain wants to take all of you down with me? Anyway, I'm seriously not used to writing angst, but I was listening to the Dixie Chicks song that shares a title with this story and I couldn't help myself. If you've never heard it, I highly recommend listening to that song AFTER you read this.**

**Tissues at the ready, y'all. This one's gonna hurt.**

* * *

Sherlock 's paper-thin (well, to the observant) smile immediately dropped as he turned away from the couple at table 3. The woman had ordered a salad, obviously, as she was desperately trying to lose weight, most likely due to her untreated body dysmorphia, not that it would change her husband's newfound sexuality not deter him from his affair with her personal trainer. Boring.

He uttered a long-suffering sigh as he entered the kitchen, but Angelo simply chuckled. "Come on, Sherlock, your shift's almost over."

"Can't come soon enough," He muttered, shoving the slip of paper with the order to the kitchen staff with far more force than necessary and earning an "Oi! Jesus!" in response.

"Alright, Sherlock, tell you what," Angelo led him away from the disgruntled employee with the gambling problem who was just doing this to pay for school since his parents had cut him off-

"Sherlock, are you listening?"

He blinked back into focus. "No, I assumed I was getting another lecture about manners."

"You weren't. I gave up on those a while ago. I was saying that tonight's pretty slow anyway, so just take table 7's order and you can leave."

Sherlock immediately bolted, ignoring Angelo's shouted "You're welcome!"

He stopped a bit before approaching table 7, wanting to get a good mental picture of its occupant before he left-he hadn't had a case in ages and his schoolwork was laughably dull. He desperately needed something to occupy his mind.

Blonde hair, high-school age like Sherlock but he obviously didn't attend the private one Sherlock did-not only did he not recognize him, but his jumper had two loose threads and his jeans were the cheapest brand there was. Not much in the way of money, then. He had combat boots on as well, but didn't seem like the alternative-fashion type. Odd. What then? He finally took a good look at his face. Smooth, handsome enough to charm ladies but not enough to make them fawn, per se, so he was probably quasi-popular, yet here he was at a restaurant by himself on a Sunday evening. And he should be doing homework, as he was very studious, going by the bags under his eyes-

Sherlock drew back a little in surprise (only mild surprise, of course-Sherlock was never surprised). The boy's eyes were a storm of emotions. Fear, sadness, compassion, resolve, more fear. But the most obvious emotion in his eyes was the one Sherlock knew best-loneliness. The boy's eyes were miles away, and Sherlock suddenly had an idea of where exactly they were.

But he needed to make sure.

Sherlock strode over to the table. The boy looked up, impressively hiding all the emotions his eyes held just a moment ago. Before he could even open his mouth, Sherlock cut in.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The boy stopped. "I'm sorry?"

"You're clearly heading off to the war, so are you stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The boy blinked a few times in shock, then answered. "Afghanistan. Sorry, do you go to St. Bart's?"

So he was right about the school. Of course he was. "Don't be ridiculous, I didn't hear about it through _gossip_! Your clothes are threadbare at best, so your family doesn't have much income to speak of, yet you own combat boots. Now, many teenagers wear combat boots, but you're not one for trends both money and style-wise, and combat boots don't serve any practical purpose unless you are actually and literally going into combat. Not to mention you already have the ability to hide your emotions like a good soldier, as you were totally lost in thoughts of war until the moment you saw me. It's obvious that you are going into the army in order to provide some income for your family. Going by the fact that you are here unaccompanied despite your undeniable popularity suggests that you are being shipped off fairly soon and wished either to lessen the pain of your peers by not forcing a "last visit" or simply wanted some time alone. It's obvious, really. Now, may I take your order?"

He expected a shouting match, maybe even a punch in the face (even that hideous jumper couldn't hide the boy's arm muscles), but instead the boy shook himself out of his shock with an almost-smile.

"That was amazing!"

For the first time he could remember Sherlock was rendered speechless. Only temporarily, of course. "You think so?"

"Of course I do! Why wouldn't I?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and searched the boy's face, but he only found sincerity. "Well, that's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

"Piss off."

That got a bit of a chuckle out of the blonde boy, and Sherlock felt oddly proud of producing that chuckle. "Seriously, though, that was cool."

"Hardly."

"Are you kidding? You were right about everything! Well, almost."

That made him look. "What did I get wrong?"

"I'm not popular." He shrugged. "No one even blinked when they announced why I was dropping out."

Sherlock felt a sudden rage. God, where were all these emotions coming from. He quickly composed himself again. "Well, that's a mistake on their part, not mine. You _should_ be popular."

There was a bit of a silence after that, neither quite knowing what to say. It was Sherlock who finally broke it.

"Now, um, if I could take your order."

"I'm not that hungry, to be honest."

"Oh." Sherlock felt his heart sink (seriously, where was all this _coming from_, because he needed to get rid of it immediately). "Right. Well, good luck on your tour, then."

"No, wait, I-" The boy held a hand out, then sighed. "Alright, this is weird."

Sherlock merely waited.

"Would you mind if we just, like…I don't know, went somewhere and talked?"

"If this is your way of asking me out, you should know that I consider myself-"

"No! No, I'm not-no." The blonde boy shook his head vehemently. "I just…" He took a deep breath. "I need someone to talk to. About all this. I mean, I'm leaving tomorrow and I-I don't know. It's weird, you don't have to-yeah, you know what, never mind. Thank you."

"No, it's fine. I've got time." Sherlock found himself saying. He almost regretted it, but when the boy looked up and just a hint of that fear from before was gone, that feeling passed.

"So, when do you get off?"

"Right now." He grabbed his coat and scarf off the rack. "I think I know just the place to go."

The boy jumped up to follow him. "Great. Lead the way, um…"

Sherlock grinned. "Sherlock Holmes."

The boy gave him an answering grin. "John Watson."

* * *

Sherlock just watched as John stared out at the horizon of the Thames, where the sun was setting the sky on fire with its setting, not even looking at the rocks he was systematically flicking into the water. He had no damn idea what to do in this situation. He didn't want to push John into talking lest he risk him retreating further into himself, but at the same time he wanted him to say _something_. He settled for the stoic silence that had settled between them.

"I never thought I'd be doing this." John finally said.

"What, joining the army?" Sherlock prodded.

"Yeah. I mean, I always knew I wanted to be a doctor, but never in the army, y'know?"

"A doctor?" Ah, there it was. He had wondered how this intelligent lad was joining the ranks of common foot soldiers.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm only an assistant, mind, but still. Never thought my first job'd be in the desert." He chucked another rock. "I suppose it'll help a lot of people, though."

"That's important to you, is it?" Sherlock winced, he hadn't meant for that to come out so cutting.

John didn't seem to mind, though. "Well, yeah. You don't like helping people?"

"Not really."

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so listening to me prattle on like this is a treat for you, is it?"

"Somewhat, yes."

"Really?" John clearly didn't believe him. "How so?"

"I don't have friends, and you're not as dull as you seem."

John shoved his arm with a smile. "Prat."

"It was a compliment." Sherlock shoved him back.

"Well then, you're pretty shit at compliments."

The two laughed for longer than they originally intended-the joke wasn't that funny, after all. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he laughed like that. Come to think of it, he was certain he never had.

After their laughter died down, the silence fell again. Sherlock could see John losing himself in images of war again. He considered touching his shoulder for a moment, then smacked that thought away in shock-since when did he want to touch anyone, especially in a comforting way?

"Sherlock?"

He snapped out of it and looked back at John, startled to see all the emotions from earlier back in his eyes.

He swallowed. "Yes, John?"

John suddenly turned away, taking deep breaths. Finally, he gave up, and when he turned back his eyes glistened.

"I'm scared." He whispered.

And for once in his life, Sherlock didn't think.

He wrapped one arm around the smaller boy and let his head fall on Sherlock's shoulder. The boy shook with silent sobs, and it broke Sherlock's heart. Even though he'd only known John for a short time, he knew that he was a strong and courageous man (legally, anyway-he'd caught a glimpse of his ID when he'd grabbed his coat, and 18 was 18 even if your birthday was only two days ago), and to see him break down like this broke Sherlock's previously-thought-to-be-non-existent heart. He rubbed his hand up and down his arm, trying his best to put him at ease, staring out at the remaining tendrils of sunset because he couldn't bear to look at John's face lest he start crying himself.

After a lifetime, John sniffed and brought his head up but Sherlock, though he loosened his grip a bit so he could sit up, didn't quite let go. "Sorry about that."

"Perfectly reasonable reaction, given the circumstances."

"Maybe." John looked up at the dark sky. "It's just…no one will miss me. No one will even remember I was here."

"Nonsense. Surely your family will notice."

John snorted. "My dad and sister's brains are practically drenched in alcohol. They won't even notice I'm gone until they run out of money to buy the damn stuff."

John really was fascinating. So many layers that no one ever saw, not even Sherlock.

"I'll miss you."

John looked back at him skeptically, and Sherlock tried not to hide and to show as much sincerity in his eyes as John showed earlier. It must have worked, because his eyes softened. "Alright, one then. You'll be VIP seat at my funeral."

The image of John in a casket suddenly flooded Sherlock's mind, and it hurt like nothing else ever had. "Don't." Sherlock barked, shutting his eyes tight.

"It was a joke."

"It wasn't funny."

John just shrugged.

The reality was finally hitting Sherlock. At some point, John would have to get up and leave, and he might never see him again. Ever. His only friend, gone just like that. He might get killed in battle and Sherlock would never know.

No.

That was unacceptable.

Sherlock quickly ripped a small notebook and a pen out of his coat pocket, flipped to a random page, and began scrawling furiously. He quickly realized his mistake though, growled, ripped out that page, and began again, writing more carefully this time.

"What the hell are you doing?" John looked like he wasn't sure whether he should be amused or frightened.

Sherlock didn't answer until he was done, then he carefully ripped out the page and handed it to John.

"What's this?" He asked.

"My address. Write to me." Sherlock suddenly looked down at his feet. "If you want."

A smile, finally, a real smile spread across John's face. "Yeah. Alright, yeah. I will. I definitely will."

Sherlock looked up then, and mirrored John's smile.

They stayed by the bank, just talking, until the sun came up.

John's face fell as he saw it. "Bus leaves at 7."

Sherlock looked at his watch. 6:30. Dammit.

They both stood up.

"Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes." He stuck out his hand in a mock-formal manner.

Sherlock chuckled and shook it. "And you, Mr. Watson."

"Oi, that's Dr. Watson to you."

He grinned. "Not yet it isn't."

"Shut up." John smacked his arm lightly, and they both laughed that wonderful laugh again.

When they'd finished, the sense of finality suddenly loomed over them.

John cleared his throat. "Well, see ya-"

It seems that Sherlock temporarily lost control of his body, because he's suddenly pulling John into a very tight hug, trying to memorize the sound of his breathing and heartbeat. He expects John to maybe pat his back awkwardly or something, but he instead returns it with just as much ferocity.

"Goodbye, Sher-"

"No." He says it loud enough that John jumps a little. "Don't…Don't say-" He tries to swallow around the lump in his throat and explain, but John quietly shushes him, somehow understanding exactly what he needs.

"It's okay." He whispers. "I'll try again." He pulls back just a little so Sherlock can see his face. The fear is gone. "Until we meet again, Sherlock."

He nods, his voice only shaking a little. "Until we meet again, John."

* * *

The letters become his anchor, his only solution when the world became dull and predictable. They always seemed to arrive just when Sherlock needed them. John would write of the training, the drills, the injuries he'd seen, and his fellow soldiers-which officers were pushovers and which recruits everyone hated. Sometimes he would ask John for a physical description, he would oblige, and Sherlock would inform him of that person's darkest secrets. He would tell John about his school, his useless classmates, and whatever new experiment he was conducting. He was apprehensive at first about bringing up the murder cases he studied, but soon found that John was fine with them, and even offered some invaluable medical expertise.

One day, Sherlock saw that something had been crossed out. Odd-John never crossed anything out, as he always wrote with such precision. The crossed out section was right at the bottom, over John's own name. It took him a minute, as John had taken care to cross it out thoroughly, but he soon found that he'd originally written "Love" and then replaced it with their usual "Sincerely".

Sherlock's heart swelled. He didn't write anything different in his letter, but made sure to write "Love" at the end and not cross it out.

Slowly, things shifted. "Love" became "All my love", "It's a bit boring over here" became "I miss you", and "Take care of yourself" became "I love you".

* * *

Sherlock yawned, wondering when this game would start already. He hadn't had anything else to do, so he figured he'd go to the school rugby game. John loved rugby, so he was excited to be able to tell him something of it, even if it was just a local game. Of course, he was sitting under the bleachers, well out of sight-he didn't want to deal with the judging stares of his classmates. He had enough of that during school hours.

Finally, the game seemed about to start.

"Excuse me, if I could have everyone's attention-"

Sherlock internally groaned. God, no wonder he never went to these things. Couldn't they just get on with it?

"Everyone, please bow your heads as we list the locals who have been killed over in Afghanistan today."

Sherlock's stomach dropped. Was this a normal thing they did at games? He supposed the same meatheads who played rugby would join the army.

The man was handed a small slip of paper-only one today, then. He looked relieved. Nobody he knew, then.

"We would like to honor Mr. John Hamish Watson-"

He spoke more, about how old he was and where he went to school, but Sherlock didn't hear him. It felt like the bottom had dropped out of the Earth and he was falling endlessly towards its molten core. If only that were true. He'd settle for felling straight through and floating in space for the rest of eternity. As long as it wasn't here, because here was where John wasn't.

He thought of that smile, that laugh, that handsome face. He thought of the way John had felt in his arms, how they had clung to each other all those months ago. The words "love" and "Sherlock" written with the exact same care and attention in his letters. The fear in his eyes that one day. Had he died alone? He had probably been scared. His last moments must have been full of fear and horror and loneliness.

Sherlock ached, a raw, unrelenting, gnawing ache that spread through his body and shook him violently. He bit down on his fist so hard he tasted blood, trying not to let his sobs escape his mouth as the tears ran down his face like twin rivers.

No one else cared. Of course they didn't. Stupid, dull, ORDINARY imbeciles. They would never notice someone as magnificent as John. It was strange to think he was just a name to them, and the entirety of the universe to Sherlock.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and finally said it, what he should have said before, when he had the chance.

"Goodbye, John." He whispered, before he collapsed into sobs once more.

* * *

**Seriously, I am so sorry. I am a mean writer when I'm sick, apparently.**

**Thoughts? Heh heh.**


End file.
